One Word | H.S.

Chapter Twenty-One

Do I have your attention yet?

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Hide.

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You know, I'm wondering if bourbon would burn my nipples off if I were to pour it on my chest.

Not saying that I'm going to do it, but I'm going to fucking do it.

If I have to hear one more senile, superior-complex, near-death, shriveled-dick man request a 'bourbon, hold the ice', I'm going to drive the ice pick straight through my ass.

I mean, seriously. My mind has been replaying the conversation that Harry and I had at Mia's nonstop, and these men have the audacity to interrupt my thoughts.

You are a walking WikiHow. "How To Get Fired; Step One: Be Presley Symmes".

The metaphorical fuck has been degrading me, finding humor in my own personal struggles. When in reality, he has been suffering alongside me, using my brokenness as an experiment, seeing whether or not it helps him with his own trials.

"It never stops".

The secret that drunkenly fumbled through Harry's lips has to relate to the words Cade spoke after Mia's breakdown. The painful, yet hopeful look in Thor's eyes revealed something so hidden.

It's as though the secret is in hieroglyphics, the only translators being Cade and Harry as I attempt to narrow my eyes, working to uncover a mystery that can only be solved by the most cryptic of beings.

Lucky for me, cryptic is my middle name. I have a magnifying glass occupying my left hand along with a set of binoculars coating my vision, my eyes ready for the slightest of movement, the smallest of revelations.

Your middle name is Susan.

The days following the party have been dauntingly slow, the seconds passing mimicking hours with every tick of the clock. My eyes have been glued to my cell-phone, searching 'how to understand confusing people' in hopes of finding explanatory tips, trusty insight on unraveling the sealed box named Harry Styles.

Though, Harry isn't a cardboard box wrapped in feathery paper, the slightest of touches ripping it to shreds as the contents pour out. Rather, he's molded with titanium, his edges sharp as even the most powerful discs struggle to cut through.

Maybe, Harry and I just need to get wickedly drunk, find our inner alcoholics, in order for myself to learn more about him. Most of our heart-to-hearts have been liquor induced, confidential information spilled with every shot taken.

WikiHow: How To Further Alcoholism, Featuring: Presley Susan 'Cryptic' Symmes and Harry 'Pretty Boy' Styles.

"Psst," I hear someone whisper to me, my head moving in every direction before I spot my boss hiding behind the wall. "Yeah, you." He points to me, my head falling to the side as my hands continue to pour bourbon into glasses.

This day, or evening I should say, of work has been dreadful; Ryder, the only person who keeps me motivated to not bash my head with a bottle, called in sick.

The fucker said he came down with the sniffles when actually, he's attending the local opera with his boy-toy. Or, in his words, "the man who will be dropped in less than three weeks".

Love. Isn't it beautiful?

I hand the customer the rippled glass, a slight nod being the only 'thank you' I get in return. "What?" I whisper, my hands reaching for the towel to clear the liquid from my hands.